The Glass House People (3 page)

Was that beer she smelled on Aunt Iris's breath? Beth waited until Aunt Iris steadied herself, then she pulled away and moved back across the room to where Hannah still stood by her father's bed.

"You always did want hair like mine, Hanny, you know you did. You wanted a lot of things I had."

"Yes," sighed Hannah, turning to look at her sister. "You're right, Iris. I sure did. But since then I've learned to live with my mousy brown hair and even like it. And, of course, I've got Beth's and Tom's beautiful red hair to look at!"

"I'm not talking about hair, Hanny Lynn, and you know it."

"Come on," said Hannah brightly, turning back to her father. "Why don't we go downstairs and let Dad get some rest?"

"That's right, girls," said Grandad. "I'll be fine up here. Feeling better already." He picked up a paperback that lay facedown on the sheet next to him.

Beth followed Hannah out of the room, then turned back once to tell the old man she would come up later and talk to him. But she stopped short at the sight of Aunt Iris.

Aunt Iris, supporting herself by clutching the post of her father's bed, was starting to follow Beth and Hannah. But the going was slow because she was so impossibly thin and frail, and because her left leg was shorter than the right by a good three inches.

Before dinner Beth and Tom hosed Romps off and took him for a long walk down the dusky streets. The houses were close together in this neighborhood, with neat green yards and borders of flowers along the driveways. They had a well-tended, cared-about look, Beth thought. Different from their apartment building in Berkeley, where neighbors came and went at all hours, and no one had any time or place for gardening. Tom stopped suddenly and grabbed her hand, then dragged her over to wait in line behind a gaggle of tiny children at an ice-cream van with a jangly bell parked at the side of one narrow street.

Beth held Romps firmly while Tom paid for two fudge bars. "Shall I faint now or later?" she asked when he handed one to her. "I didn't think old Mac
ever
spent his allowance." She'd nicknamed him Mac when he first started raving about the Macintosh computer he used at school. "Aren't you still saving for a computer? What's the deal?"

"No deal." He shrugged and looked away. "I'm just celebrating being out of that house."

"We've only been there a few hours."

"Yeah, but don't you feel it?" He reached for Romps's leash. "It's like—I don't know. I just can't believe Mom grew up there. Freaks me out."

"That's another first," Beth teased. "Nothing freaks out old Mac. He's fearless as only a computer wizard can be." She stopped teasing when she saw his face. "Listen, what's wrong? I mean, Aunt Iris is bizarre, but—"

He shrugged. "Never mind." Then, pulling on Romps's leash, he started running. "Come on, boy! Let's go!" They raced away, leaving Beth to lick her fudge bar alone.

Beth was glad they had been able to bring Romps along on this trip. When she was six and they still lived over the hills, someone had dumped the schnauzer runt off at the porch. All the commune children had helped care for him, but he'd favored Beth. And so when Hannah left the house a few years later, everyone agreed the dog should go with Beth. He had been her constant friend. When Hannah first told them of the plan to return to Philadelphia this summer, she said Romps would have to stay behind in Berkeley with a neighbor. But Beth had put her foot down. If she wasn't going to have any other friends around this summer, she was
at least
going to have her dog. And Hannah gave in once she saw the look on Beth's face.

Beth wandered after Tom and Romps, enjoying the sights of a real neighborhood again after so many nights with only motel parking lots to stare at after dinner. She heard the swish of wheels on pavement and turned to see a slim, dark-haired girl about her age roller-skating toward her, eating a frozen yogurt bar. She braked neatly in front of Beth and flipped her long hair over her shoulders.

"Hi. You must be new around here."

"That's right. But just for the summer."

"You don't look very happy about it."

"It wasn't my idea to come."

"I'm Monica Clements," the girl said, finishing her yogurt bar and wiping her fingers on her shorts. "I'm fairly new around here, too. Just since January. Maybe we should start a club."

Beth looked at her with interest. "I'm Beth Madigan. We're staying at my grandparents' house on Spring Street."

"I live around the block, next to the Waverley." She shook her hair back again. "Where are you from?"

"California. We live in Berkeley—across the bay from San Francisco."

"I went camping in Yosemite once," Monica said. "And then we went to San Francisco for a few days. It was foggy."

"Yeah, but at least it's never humid like this!" Beth held her arms away from her sides. "I'm dripping."

"You get used to it." Monica bent down to adjust her roller skate. She stood up again and threw back her hair. "Listen, I work every day, but maybe we can get together when I'm off and do something, if you're going to be around all summer. It's pretty tame around here, but there are movies."

"That would be great!" Beth smiled at Monica with relief. Things wouldn't be so boring if she had somebody to do things with.

"I've got to go now, but I'll have time on the weekend. Wait a sec," Monica said, and skated up to the little window of the ice-cream van. She borrowed a pen from the vendor and scribbled on a paper napkin.

"This is my phone number," she said, handing the paper to Beth. "Give me a call when you want to get together."

"Great!" Beth took the slip of paper. "I'd give you my phone number, but I don't know it yet. We just got here this afternoon."

They said good-bye, and Beth watched Monica roll down the street, admiring her skill. For all that roller skating was a big deal in California, she'd never been able to skate more than a few feet without crashing onto her knees.

Beth started walking around the block after Tom and Romps and caught up to them on the corner. They were still panting from their run. "Time to go back, you crazies," she said.

Tom chewed on his ice cream stick. "Romps likes long runs. What's your hurry?"

"We'll be late for dinner and Mom will be mad. You know she's trying to make a good impression." She took the dog's leash and set off with Romps prancing at her heels. "Come on. Mom's a basket case already." Tom shrugged and moseyed along a good ten paces behind.

***

At dinner Beth found herself only picking at the food, hoping Grandmother wouldn't be insulted or think she didn't like it. Maybe the fudge bar had taken away her appetite, or else the heat had. There was an enormous spread—a real feast—on the table, but Beth didn't want any of it. Maybe, Beth thought briefly, Grandmother meant to welcome them with food rather than words, for most of what she'd said so far had been cool and distant.

Tom ate steadily. Hannah kept complimenting Grandmother on the delicious chicken stew. It was thick with vegetables and had big, fluffy squares of dumplings floating on top. Grandad ate his dinner upstairs in his air-conditioned room. Beth watched covertly as Aunt Iris carefully picked half a potato, one tiny piece of chicken, and five peas from the stew tureen, and then plucked a single tomato wedge from the salad bowl. She arranged the food in a circle on her plate. She adjusted each pile with her fork, making sure the different kinds of food were equidistant from each other. She nibbled with her head down, finishing quickly, then washed down the scanty portions with gulps of beer.

"It's been ages since I've had chicken potpie," said Hannah. "This is really a treat."

"I make it often, you know," said Grandmother. "You could have come back at any time."

Hannah was silent. Iris passed the heavy tureen of stewed chicken to Tom.

"Thanks, Aunt Iris."

"I like to see a young man eat," she said. "1 hope you and your sister aren't picky eaters." She filled the tall glass by his plate with beer. "There you go."

"Oh, Iris—Tom's too young to drink—," began Hannah, but Tom cut her off.

"Thanks a lot!" He seized the glass and drank deeply. "Don't worry, Mom."

"Tasty, isn't it?" asked Aunt Iris.

Hannah ignored the smile her sister bestowed on Tom. "There's plenty of time to drink when you're older, Tom. One more sip and that's it."

"Oh, Mom. It's only one glass. I'm grown-up enough."

"He's right," said Aunt Iris, her voice cold. "What were you doing when you were around his age, Hanny Lynn? You thought you were plenty grown-up then, didn't you?"

Hannah set her fork down gently. "I did, then," she said. "But maybe I've learned something since. Tom's only fifteen, Iris. I'd hate to see him or Beth grow up too soon." She removed the glass of beer from Tom's place and poured him some ice water from the pitcher into a clean glass.

"What's with the beer, Iris?" asked Grandmother. "You haven't touched alcohol in ages!"

"Hanny Lynn's here now." Aunt Iris's voice was succinct. "So I drink."

Then no one said anything else, and Beth remembered how her mother had lit that cigarette at the rest stop during their journey. She continued picking at her meal until everyone else had finished. After dinner she volunteered to do the dishes, knowing her mother would be pleased and surprised. But her true reason was she wanted to be alone so that she would not have to talk to anyone else. When Tom offered to help, she shoved him into the living room with the others.

From the kitchen, Beth could hear Grandmother pumping Tom for information about their life in California. Her questions made it clear she believed only degenerates and movie stars lived on the West Coast. Beth could hardly make out Tom's answers; he spoke in a murmur. But Grandmother's questions were loud and sharp, almost as if they were not meant for Tom's ears, but for someone else's.

"So you were born in a commune, hmm? It couldn't have been an easy life for a child. I've read about those cults."

"No, Grandmother," he said. "It wasn't a cult—it was like a group house. There were three families and one or two couples without children, and we all lived in a big house and shared the space and the work. That is, the adults did. We kids had a great time just playing. It seemed like there were acres of space! We moved away when I was little, anyway. I don't remember all the people—"

"Too many folks coming and going, eh? Hard to keep track of?"

"Well, no—"

"But there hasn't been much in the way of family life for you, has there, way out west? With your father getting himself killed racing around in those sports cars they all drive out there, and your mother taking up with—"

"Mama!" interrupted Hannah.

"Taking up with anyone who would put up with two little kids." Grandmother's voice continued inexorably. "Such a shame, I always felt, two little kids growing up in day care, while their mother was off doing God-knows-what—"

"Off working, Mama!" Hannah's voice, sharp now, cut in. "Stop talking nonsense. I had to work, and I've worked hard. Tom and Beth were always well cared for."

Grandmother's voice was even sharper than Hannah's. "Are these children of yours on drugs, Hanny? Most kids today are—especially in California. I want you to make it clear to your children that there's to be no running around with drug dealers here. They both look like they're on something right now!"

Beth nearly dropped the cup she was drying. She set it on the counter and moved closer to the door to listen.

"Mama, please! You know nothing of my life, how hard it's been to manage on my own. You have no idea what my children have been doing, what their interests are—nothing!"

"And who is to blame for that, Hanny Lynn?"

"I am! I know it! I accept that blame. But Beth and Tom are good kids. They're just exhausted now, poor things. That's all. We've been on the road for days."

"That girl of yours," pressed Grandmother, her voice rising over Hannah's. "You make it clear to her there's to be no running around with boys here. She seems mannerly enough right now, but then you always seemed that way, too. Like mother, like daughter, I expect—"

Her voice dropped, and Beth moved back to the sink and plunged her hands into hot, soapy water. She scrubbed the stew pot with long, angry strokes.

Then Tom was beside her, grabbing up a dry tea towel. "I'm helping."

"Sure," she said, moving over. Who could blame him for not wanting to sit in the living room with them?

"You know what gets me?" he asked in a low voice.

"What?"

"The whole time Grandmother was going on about how badly we've been brought up, tears were falling down her face. And old skinnybones was sitting back in her corner in the dark—and she was
smiling,
Beth! Grandmother was crying and Aunt Iris was smiling the whole time."

Carrying Romps, Beth went up to bed early. It was true, as her mother had told Grandmother, that she was exhausted from traveling. But she wanted to be alone more than anything. The days on the road had afforded her little privacy—cooped up in the car by day and still together with her mother and Tom in a single motel room by night. It would feel luxurious just to stretch out on top of the bed, all alone, and write in her journal.

She'd kept a journal for four years now, since she was twelve, and was already on Volume Eight. She wrote down daily events, dreams she remembered when she woke up, and plans for her future with Ray, when she'd be out of high school and would stop feeling so much like a kid next to him.

She also made sketches of stained-glass windows she hoped to make someday when she got her own studio. She usually worked at the kitchen table in their apartment or after hours at Glassworks. Jane Simmons, the owner of Glassworks, offered her and Ray space to do their own work on their own time. She was impressed, she'd told them, with the artistic promise both of them showed. Ray was a professional in his own right already, Jane Simmons said. And Beth was a rising star.

She lay on the lumpy bed in the hot bedroom and thought about that now. She liked the sound of those words: "Rising Star." Maybe that would make a good name for the shop she and Ray would have. She'd call him in the morning and see what he thought. Tell him they'd arrived safely, too.